


Inked

by CaptainMartello



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU - Tony never became Iron Man, FrostIron - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Present Tense, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainMartello/pseuds/CaptainMartello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony takes a walk through the shadier side of the city whilst hiding from Pepper and meets someone he never could have expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

"Anthony Edward Stark!"

Tony groans quietly, dropping under his workbench to hide. Again. He appointed Pepper, his personal assistant and de facto best friend, to the CEO of Stark Enterprises a few months ago. He wasn't really interested in the business side of things (boring), preferring to spend his time tinkering around in his workshop, and he’d chosen her since she seemed like she could handle pretty much anything and Obadiah Stane has always creeped Tony out a little bit. So far Pepper was proving very efficient, though. Almost too efficient. At this point, Tony thinks his head will explode if he has to sign another form or attend another meeting. He knows he's probably a little old to be hiding, but so far it's worked.

As soon as the yelling and the sound of her high heels (obscenely pointy enough to be considered lethal weapons) fade along the corridor, Tony makes his move, punching in his code on the keypad, grabbing his incognito sunglasses and making for the stairs. He needs to make his escape before she comes up with yet another yawningly boring task for him to perform and, honestly, he could do with a walk. 

On second thought, his incognito sunglasses aren’t really that “incognito”. He tries to leave Stark Tower via a side door as surreptitiously as he can, but that’s not saying much. Sneaking out of the grounds and walking off down the street, people’s faces turn to stare at him, just like those scenes in Inception where the subject’s subconscious projections start to realise that the dreamer does not belong, he thinks. The eeriness of it all makes him do a double take, disturbing his usually unshakeable confidence for a few seconds. When _was_ the last time he walked down the streets like this? Usually he has Happy drive him straight to whatever party or function that needs attending in the limousine (Happy who is now, understandably, quite tired of Tony’s Snow White jokes), or gets Jarvis to order in anything he might need. What would teenaged Tony think if he could see him now, he wonders. His glitzy lifestyle aside, he really does need to get out more. 

Letting his feet move independently while his thoughts sprint through his mind, he finds himself walking towards the fringes of the city, away from the familiar surroundings, the advertisements for his company, the bustling crowds full of staring faces. He hasn’t been to this kind of place for a long time, not since he was looking for something a little less than legal to take the edge off dealing with his parents’ deaths. The memories aren’t exactly pleasant, but there’s something inexplicably cathartic about remembering and just letting his feet take him where they will.

He’s walking down a rather shady looking street and wondering whether the people there know quite how much his suit and the assorted Stark technology stuffed into its pockets are actually worth when one storefront in particular catches his eye. It’s fairly small, but yet not quite as grimy as the rest of the buildings on the street. “INKED” is written above the door in faded, curving letters. From what he can make out through the window next to it, it’s a small tattoo parlour. Tattoos eh? He hasn’t seriously considered getting one of those since he was properly in his rebellious adolescent phase (not that he ever grew out of his rebellious phase, but he’s since moved on to other poisons). Over the years he’s slept with plenty of people with tattoos, and he really does love the way they look, contrasted against the backdrop of smooth skin, but he could never come to grips with the permanence of it all. How is he supposed to choose one design and be stuck with it for the rest of his life? He’d change his mind within the week and add it to the ever-growing list of bad decisions he’s made. The billionaire snorts quietly to himself. Tony, Tony, Tony… he can’t even commit to a _body modification_. 

The snort is cut short, however, as a man suddenly walks into view behind the ancient windowpane and Tony freezes in place, his usually overactive brain seeming to pause mid-thought for a moment, words fleeing his head. He pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, takes a few steps closer to the glass and hopes that no one will catch him staring. This man really is striking even at this distance, there’s no other word for it. Tony’s been around luxury and finery his entire life and he goddamn knows how to spot something rare and beautiful and this most definitely fits the bill. He’s a famous playboy and notoriously wealthy so he’s had his fair share of lovers (male and female) but there’s just something undefinable about this man, a strange connection, even though he has absolutely no idea what he’s like or even what his name is, Tony thinks he’d like to find out. He’s all pale skin and cheekbones and luscious dark hair and… oh. As the man in the window turns to the side to reach for something from a shelf, Tony catches a glimpse of a lightly muscled arm covered in tattoos, symbols of some sort, although he can’t quite make them out from this distance. Whatever they are, they interlock and curl their way up the man’s skin for some unknown purpose. He’s never seen anything quite like it.

Tony’s been standing there for a good few minutes before the man in the window seems to notice him staring and turns to look straight at him. He quickly turns away and pretends to be interested in a weather-beaten band poster (as if) on the other side of the street, acting nonchalant for all he’s worth. Fuck. He looked like a bit of a creep there. Way to make a good impression. He reaches into his pocket to hit the button on the side of his customised StarkPhone which will automatically text Happy his GPS coordinates and sets off reluctantly back down the street. 

That night as he sleeps (in his own bed for once, rather than passed out in his workshop or in the apartment of a girl whose name he can’t remember), Tony Stark dreams. It’s not a normal dream, he’s fairly sure – he’s never dreamed so vividly and colourfully without the presence of some kind of stimulant. He dreams and he sees himself, looking a little older and more careworn than he’s used to. This is a Tony who’s faced different battles, made different choices. Who he might have been. A parallel Tony, if you will. Awesome. His altered face isn’t the thing that really sticks out though. His chest is… well, it’s glowing. There’s a small, circular blue device that seems to have been _implanted_ right into the centre of it, raised silvery veins spreading out from it in unnatural patterns. It looks like it’s not doing much good for his health but he can’t help but find it oddly beautiful.

  
The image changes again and the strange device has been covered up with a shirt, but this time he’s not alone. He’s standing in one of the upper floors of Stark Tower and the man from the tattoo parlour is there too, just staring at him oh so intensely with hair slicked back and dressed in an intricate outfit of leather and metal that still somehow manages to be form-fitting (Tony had no idea that his subconscious was that kinky). They seem to have met each other before but there’s a tension there, air hanging heavy between them and Tony feels his heartbeat quicken, whether from fear or from quite something else entirely.

  
He can feel himself starting to wake up now, but the images are just flashing past his eyelids even faster, images of what he assumes must be him in some red and gold contraption, mask covering his face, chest still glowing, soaring through the skies using some kind of jet propulsion system in his boots that the alternate him had to have designed and that he will really have to look into because, wow, it’s ingenious and…

* * *

Tony wakes with a start, sweat beading on his forehead, covers long since relegated to the floor. He doesn’t usually remember more than brief snatches of his dreams but this one, again, is different. The bright images feel like they’ve been burnt onto the back of his retina. Throughout the morning Tony can’t stop thinking about them, wondering about that device in his chest. Such a striking design. Design… tattoo? He could get a tattoo. That’s a thing, that he could do. It would be a pretty brilliant tattoo actually, all circles and lines, right in the middle of his chest and it would definitely be a reason to go back to that shop. From the moment the idea of getting a tattoo was born, really, there was never any question of anyone else doing it, regardless of how many high-end tattoo parlours he could afford.

As impulsive as ever, Tony realises that he has a free half an hour now. Now would be a good time.  
Without thinking about the ramifications too much, he half-walks, half-jogs down the street back to the tattoo parlour (he really needs to invent a better mode of short-range transport, really, this is too slow).

Ten minutes later he arrives at the shop for the second time this week. Brushing away some momentary doubts about whether the man is actually working today or whether a tattoo is really the wisest rash decision to make (things he admits he probably should have thought of beforehand), Tony strides through the door. As it turns out, the man does seem to be working today, perched on a stool at the front of the shop. Up close he is even more beautiful, not that Tony thought it possible, the tattoos on his arm standing out stark against his flawlessly pale skin.

“Hello… hello?” asks the man at the counter. Tony quickly snaps out of his reverie to be confronted by some green, green eyes.

“H..hi”, he stutters, uncharacteristically shy. The man gives a small smile and Tony explains what he is looking for, shooting quick glances at the raven-haired tattooist to gauge his reaction. As the man nods and seems to look interested, he gains a little confidence back and quickly sketches it out on a scrappy piece of paper he found in a pocket. The man outright smiles at this and Tony loves it.

“I like it. Yes, I think I could do that. I’m Loki, by the way.” He holds out his hand and they shake, a tiny frisson shooting through Tony as their eyes meet again. Damn. A gorgeous British accent too? That’s just unfair. Loki’s fingers were slender, and slightly colder than his own, giving Tony the overwhelming desire to offer to warm them up. His heart is pounding and he feels more than a little foolish. Nobody has made him feel quite like that since he was a teenager, for heaven’s sake.

“Unusual name for an unusual man”, he blurts out without thinking. Loki looks momentarily startled before smirking back curiously.

“Perhaps.”

They sit down together at a small table nearby to fill out the paperwork and for Loki to transform his rough sketch into a complex and beautifully detailed design which he immediately and enthusiastically consents to. Loki’s eyebrows edge upwards as Tony fishes out a bundle of fifties from another pocket as payment, and rise even further when he reads the name at the top of the form he hands back.

“Tony… Tony Stark? Of Stark Enterprises?” He nods, almost embarrassed of that fact. He’s had his parents’ legacy hanging over him for his entire life. It might have been nice if he could have been anonymous, for once. Loki just looks a little confused.

“What are _you_ doing _here_?” Tony rolls his eyes and waves the drawing of the tattoo.

“What on earth d’you think I’m doing here!” At this, Loki snorts.

“You know what I meant.” A soft smile appears on Tony’s face. This person seems to be genuinely interested in him. He's not quite ready to spill his life story to this total stranger though, however gorgeous he may be. Also if he hasn’t come off as totally creepy already, telling Loki that he’s seen him in his dreams will certainly do the trick.

“Long story. Perhaps I’ll tell it to you some day.” He wonders if assuming they would meet again was a little too much, but Loki doesn’t seem to mind.

He is lead through the small shop, with Loki enthusiastically pointing out pieces of equipment and giving a brief explanation of the tattooing process as he goes. Tony isn’t really listening however, rather more interested in watching Loki’s surprisingly graceful legs as he walks. The shop itself is still as dark as it first appeared, but it has a homey, comfortable feeling, rather than gloomy, as he originally thought. Magnificent pictures and illustrations of past designs adorning the walls make him wonder whether it was actually possible that Loki could have done all that. His work really is great quality considering where his shop is located. What is he doing here? What is he going to make of Tony’s odd design? As they reach the back of the shop, Loki pulls aside a curtain and gestures to a lone dentist-style chair behind it, showing off his finely muscled arms and the strange writing that covers them in the process.

“If you could just take your shirt off and take a seat?” Tony gulps, feeling shy again. He berates himself, feeling even more ridiculous. He’s certainly no blushing virgin. Oh what the hell. Making quick work of the buttons, Tony chucks the shirt to the floor before he can have any more doubts. Looking up, he catches Loki looking him up and down whilst pulling on a pair of short black gloves. He’s fairly sure he catches a flicker of interest in those eyes too. Tony was certainly not ready for that. Never has he been much of a churchgoer, but right now he silently thanks God that he wore loose enough trousers today that the evidence of just how much he likes that look isn’t immediately visible… he hopes. This is one part of being a teenager that he really hasn’t missed. Desperately, he tries to picture Nick Fury, his director of HR, in fishnets. What an image. Yep, that’ll do it.

Finally he lies down on the chair and stretches out his limbs languidly. Loki crouches down beside him and tentatively skims his fingers over Tony’s chest.

“You absolutely sure you want it over your heart?” Yes, Tony is. It wouldn’t be quite the same anywhere else and he’s fairly sure he can handle the pain. He nods his assent.

Loki starts off by cleaning the area, lithe hands travelling over his chest with a swab doused in rubbing alcohol – Tony knows that smell, would know it anywhere. It has been a fairly constant companion for him of late. Mm-mm, can’t beat the smell of ethanol in the morning. He relaxes into the touch, enjoying it perhaps a little more than he should. 

The tattooing itself isn’t quite as pleasant, when he gets around to it. Loki wasn’t lying before, it hurts like a bitch. Thankfully it gets more bearable after a minute or so. It helps that the stunning tattooist is bent over him, getting up close and personal with his naked torso. Oh all the other uses Tony can think of for this position…. oh god, abort! Nick Fury in fishnets! Nick Fury in fishnets! 

Loki’s gaze is intense, his hands precise, tattooing carefully over the thermal transfer of the design that he did earlier. Tony itches to talk to him, but he’s not sure it would be the best idea he ever had to try and distract someone currently holding a needle in the vicinity of his heart so he just uses the time to think up a list of questions for later.

“Right, I’m done with the machine for now.” Finally. He stretches out his limbs as Loki starts to clean his chest with a hot towel. By now he’s ranked the questions in his head by importance, subject area and interesting…ness, so he goes for the first on his list.

“Your tattoos, they’re some form of Elder Futhark right?” Tony was positive he’d seen the runes before so he spent the night before devouring some texts on the subject. Now he can read most of the runes on Loki’s arm, enough to know how to pronounce them and give a brief history of each of their origins, but he has no idea what is meant by what they spell out. It looks vaguely Germanic, but not close enough to any of the languages he already knows to allow him to figure it out. Asking about the runes probably wasn’t the most important question, but he’s dying to know. The tattooist looks… surprised, Tony thinks, but not unhappily.

“Actually, yes, they’re used to write a very old form of Norse. Not many people have recognised them.”

“Why Norse?” A small frown adorns Loki’s face and his forehead crinkles a little.

“It’s… also a long story. Perhaps I’ll tell it _to you_ some day.” Smiling, Tony asserts that yes, he would like that. Obviously Loki didn’t mind too much about him assuming they would meet again at all. This day just keeps getting better.

As his chest is slowly cleaned and the tattoo is uncovered, he gets his first good look at it. It’s even better than he had imagined, intricate and mechanical-looking, strong but yet delicately done, sitting right in the middle of his chest. Even sore and red as it is, it pleases him aesthetically and he doesn’t really mind the thought of being stuck with it for a few years. He loves it and tells Loki all of this, who grins widely before applying more ointment to the design, bandaging it and taping the whole thing up. 

“What are you doing in the U.S.?” Tony seizes the opportunity to ask a few more questions. At this point he knows he’s probably prying a little too much, but hey, inappropriate is his thing.

“Oh,” Loki pauses for a second, as though considering quite how to word his response. “I had a disagreement with my father, which ended up with him restricting me access to my… resources and sending me here to Midg- New York.”

“Must have been some disagreement,” he replies wryly. Loki smiles tightly and nods his head briefly in assent.

“One could say that.” Intrigued, Tony looks up questioningly at the tattooist. A silence falls between them as he meets Loki’s gaze, not exactly awkward in nature, but full of strange tension and words as of yet unspoken. He opens his mouth to say something, but can’t for the life of him decide quite what. Fate takes the opportunity out of his hands, however, as his StarkPhone buzzes loudly in his pocket, startling them both.

“You should… you should probably get that,” Loki mumbles, clearing his throat and turning away slightly.

Tony sighs under his breath, the moment’s gone now. For all that he appreciates Pepper, she is _such_ a cockblock. He texts her back to tell her just that. She doesn’t deign to reply to him, but he knows that, wherever she is, she’s probably (definitely) rolling her eyes. Loki busies himself with shuffling some papers and producing Tony’s receipt and some standard leaflets on proper tattoo care. From these non-verbal clues he gathers that it’s high time for him to leave.

“Wait,” begins Tony, in a weak attempt to prolong the conversation, scrabbling for another question from his list, “I forgot to ask. Do you... have any other tattoos?” Loki looks amused and simply winks, scribbling on Tony’s receipt and handing it to him.

“Good day, _Mister Stark_.”

Unwillingly, Tony pulls the door open, glancing wistfully at Loki as he leaves. He really will have to fabricate an excuse to come back here again, meetings be damned. He only met this man today, but already Tony can’t get him off his mind. He starts off down the street, thoughts swirling… _Does_ the other man have any more tattoos? That’s an intriguing thought.

Frowning, he’s about to shove the receipt into the depths of a pocket before he pauses, bringing it up to his eyes. As he reads it, a broad smile spreads itself across his face and he walks off with a definite spring in his step.

Across the little piece of paper, Loki has scrawled in elegant letters “There’s only one way to find out...” accompanied by what is unmistakably a telephone number.


End file.
